Sherlock has to Pee
by anney101
Summary: Sherlock is so absorbed in a case that he neglects to use the bathroom until it may be too late.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock sat focus on the couch at his flat. His eyes were closed, his fingertips pressed together beneath his nose. His mind was at the crime scene, where a man had been found dead, completely nude, and shoved into a bush. The police had no leads. There were no points of injury and no poisons had been detected.

It was the perfect case for Sherlock, and he was hardly aware that he'd been sitting on the couch all day. Sherlock didn't care for food or water while he was thinking. "Digestion distracts the brain." He'd always said. And so, he likely would've sat unmoving for hours to come, had his bladder not made itself known.

At the first sign of pressure, Sherlock looked down at his groin with a glare, as if he could will Mother Nature to stop. He didn't go, however. He'd been in situations like this loads of times, and he always waited until he had solved the case, or at least made some sort of breakthrough, to go. It gave his mind motivation to think faster.

He closed his eyes once more and again pushed the case to the forefront of his mind. He sat unmoving for another hour or so, but his bladder was inching its way into his thoughts, and he continually had to push it away.

As the afternoon crept into the evening, Sherlock's legs pressed themselves together in the subconsciousness of his working mind. When his could no longer keep still, he found himself on his feet pacing back and forth across the room. He was so absorbed in his mind palace, he was hardly aware any of this was happening. He was certainly not aware that he would occasionally stop to cross his legs and grab his crotch. All of this was peripheral to his mind palace.

That was when John came home from work. He wasn't surprised to see Sherlock pacing across the living room with his fingers pressed to his temple. This was typical behavior for him. He turned his back to the kitchen just in time to miss Sherlock grabbing his crotch.

As Sherlock grabbed his crotch this time, the presence of John in the room made him suddenly aware of what he was doing. He stared down at his hands on his crotch, and jerked his head back in shock. He slowly removed his hands, a look of confusion present on his face.

And then, he became aware of the pronounced pressure in his bladder. He immediately crossed his legs, as the urine threatened to leak out of his overly full bladder. He heard John in the kitchen, rummaging around in the fridge, and rushed over to the couch to sit down. He crossed his legs and rocked back and forth, and then attempted to reenter his mind palace.

"Any progress?" John asked casually, entering the room with left over Chinese takeout from the previous night.

"No." Sherlock said, continuing to rock on the couch.

"Are you alright?" John asked, cocking his head to the side.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. He knew John would try and make him use the restroom, just as he tried to make him eat and drink during cases. "I'm fine."

"Alright." John lingered on Sherlock, eyes searching, before shrugging and retreating to his desk.

Sherlock was desperate. He found rocking was no longer enough, and fidgeted around, trying to find a comfortable position. Each movement sent a wave of pressure through his bladder. He grit his teeth, bringing his leg up and stuffing it beneath his crotch. His knee shook, but he closed his eyes and tried to think back to the case.

But as soon as he almost was back to his mind palace, his bladder was met with a wave of newfound desperation, ripping Sherlock back to reality. He let out a low grunt as his hands instinctively met his crotch and squeezed.

John leaned around his computer and looked towards Sherlock. His eyes widened and he was immediately on his feet. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, but he kept his hands clasped tight on his groin. Despite his usual maverick attitude, Sherlock felt the warm rush of blood fill his face. He glared at John, but said nothing.

John's mouth hung open, incredulous. "Sherlock, go to the bathroom!"

Sherlock could no longer stand to sit still. He shifted his weight around his heal and doubled over on himself. He hissed through his clenched jaw, "Not until I figure this out."

"Jesus, Sherlock. You can't think when you're wasting all you energy like that. Now go to the bathroom!" John pointed at towards the bathroom as he shouted.

Sherlock's bladder insisted on release, and despite his constant movements, a small spurt squirted into his briefs. Sherlock hissed as he slipped off the couch and into a cross legged position on the ground, his legs jiggling, and his hands clasping. John was right – there was no way he'd be able to figure anything out in this state.

Sherlock wiggled his way up, ignoring the seething John across the room. He danced around, doubling over, marching, and crossing his legs, slowly progressing towards the bathroom. As he released a hand to grab open the doorknob, a slow trickle started in his briefs. He jiggled in, slamming the door shut with his back leg, and rushed in front of the toilet, the slow trickle continuing to leak out.

With inhaled sharply when he removed his hands to undo his belt. The slow trickle became a wave. Sherlock immediately fell to the ground to relieve some of the pressure, but did not stop undoing his belt. The urine continued to hiss into his pants, until his finally got his belt undone, stood up, and pulled himself out.

He sighed in relief as he started peeing into the toilet, staring up at the ceiling, and taking several deep breaths.

When he finished, he looked down at his soiled pants with a grimace. He flushed, sipped himself up, and washed his hands. He opened the bathroom door and walked straight into his room directly beside it, closing the door behind him.

John by now had returned to his desk and was typing away on his computer. He froze at the sound of Sherlock going into his room. His eyes shifted toward the hallway, narrowing.

Sherlock's door opened again, and John heard him enter the bathroom and start the shower. John frowned, his eyes lingering down the hallway a little longer, before he continued typing.

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom only 7 minutes later. He always had been an efficient washer. He avoided John's gaze as he returned to his seat on the couch.

John had his eyes fixed on Sherlock, his expression stone cold.

Sherlock could no longer pretend not to notice when John broke the silence. "Sherlock."

Sherlock momentarily flicked his gaze to John, before setting his eyes forward once more. "John."

"Did you-"

"What?" Sherlock asked, now turning to stare John dead on.

John breathed in to say something, and then stopped. He shook his head and said, "Well, at least we can all finally admit Sherlock is human, and has human needs."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he did not deny John's implications. Instead, he said, "I need to find out the significance of the scratched on the cornea. It's driving me mad."

A smile broke out on John's face, and then he was laughing.

Sherlock's face hardened again. "Stop that."

John turned to Sherlock laughing, and said, "Sherlock, you peed your pants!"

Sherlock growled, and then stomped off to his room, slamming the door shut behind him.


	2. Waking Up

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, pushing his face into his pillow and muffling a groan. The shower was running, which meant it was around 7:30 in the morning. This running water pronounced his reason for waking up. His bladder tickled beneath him, asking for relief. It really was a stupid bodily function. Sherlock hated it. It could be such a waste of time, or in this case, a waste of sleep.

He yawned and rolled over, wincing. He was determined to ignore it. He'd be up within an hour or so, anyway. He was sure he could wait that long. He'd been in unfavourable situations before - ones much less forgiving than needing to pee with a bathroom fifteen feet away. He could deal with it.

Sherlock gripped the edge of the blankets and pulled them closer, letting the plush fabric settle down heavily against his neck. He sighed tiredly and let his eyes flutter shut and pressed his face into the spot where his two pillow met.

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, the clock beside him was shining 7:50 and his bladder was throbbing.

"Not… now…" Sherlock moaned, wrapping his arms around his pillow and drawing it close to bury his face in it. He was so warm and comfortable and…

He let out a huff as if it would help alleviate the pain, but thirty three years of living in his own body meant he knew his limits. It was time to get up.

He sighed and shoved the pillow away again, and started to climb out of bed. His legs were entwined with the blankets, however, and his foot got caught on the fabric. He pulled with irritation and impatience, but lost his balance and ended up flat arse on the floor.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes automatically followed the voice, his eyes falling on the bathroom door. John was still in the bathroom? What took him so long? He was a soldier; weren't soldiers supposed to be quick, on their feet, ready for anything? At least the shower wasn't still running. That would have been his undoing.

"John," Sherlock said, voice deep, rumbling from being asleep. "…Let me in." He rubbed his eyes and leaned against the wall next to the door. He was bouncing up and down, pressing his thighs together subconsciously.

"Why? What was that noise?"

"Nothing. I've got to use the toilet."

"I doubt it was nothing," John said. "I'll be out in a few minutes."

Pain jolted through Sherlock's body and he clenched his teeth. He knew he couldn't wait a few minutes, and he was determined not to make a spectacle of himself in his still half-asleep state. "John. Now. As in, now."

There was a beat of silence before the lock clicked on the door and John peered out at him. His face was lathered up with shaving cream. Oh. Logical. Why hadn't Sherlock made the connection? Must have been too asleep. Too distracted.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, pushing past him unsteadily.

John steadied him when he stumbled. "Are you alright?"

"Will be in a minute," Sherlock mumbled.

"Right, I'll just… give you a minute." John stepped out of the bathroom.

At this point, Sherlock wouldn't have cared if John had stuck around or not, but he supposed it was more for John's benefit than his own that he left. John was oddly fussy for privacy after being a soldier.

Sherlock washed his hands afterwards – after, of course, walking straight into the counter and possible bruising his left hip – and dried them on his shirt as he shuffled back to his bedroom.

"Too much tea?" John asked.

"So it would seem."

John laughed and went back into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock glanced at the clock, figured that he ought to get dressed, get ready for the day. But… five more minutes couldn't hurt…

He crawled back onto the bed, forgoing the blankets. He was getting up in a few minutes, anyway.

He was snoring before John even came out of the bathroom, face buried in his pillows again.


End file.
